Stab Wound
by Dreaming of the skies
Summary: John dies, Sherlock doesn't take it very well, it's a hard time for him TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR SUICIDE Major character deaths! Disclaim, in no way do I own Sherlock, I am simply using these characters, I make no money from this story.


John lay on the ground, the world spinning in and out of focus. He'd gone out alone, it was stupid really, just so stupid. He groaned internally. Sherlock hadn't finished his case yet, hadn't caught the criminal, which meant that there was still a criminal running about. No, sorry forget that, there was a criminal running around the streets of London. John had successfully shot the man, but not before getting stabbed himself. Stupid, so damn stupid.

He wheezed for breath, it was becoming harder and harder, he scrambled for his phone 'come on' he mumbled under his breath. finding it he quickly scrambled for Sherlocks number, not an ambulance, no. But Sherlock. Only because of Sherlocks brother Mycroft. He could get an ambulance there much quicker. And well John wanted to see Sherlock, it was like a longing ache, he couldn't put his finger on the pain, not the stab wound but a mental pain.

"Hello?"

"John?"

"John, are you there?! Answer me!"

John snapped out of his trance. He wasn't sure why he called Sherlock and not Mary, but what he did was done and he didn't have time to ring Mary as well.

"Sh-sherlock, help, please, I-I'm at Cobblers Lane, please, help, s-stab wound"

"John I'm on my way now, can you hear me John?!"

"C-can't stay a-aw" The line broke and an awful beep came after.

The phone had fallen out of John's hand as he went limp, he tried to stay awake, by god he tried, but he soon found consciousness leaving him.

Sherlock cursed under his breath, John, no, John can't do this to him, please no, he'd just gotten out of exile himself and now, now John was- John's leaving him, Oh god no. Quickly he to the destination ringing Mary on his way letting her know what had happened. He arrived not long after, seeing John lying there he wasted no time and ran over.

He put his fingers to Johns neck checking for a pulse.

He paused, No, no no no!

He checked again more frantically this time.

Nothing.

No pulse.

John wasn't breathing.

John was dead.

It wasn't fair.

It had only been a few hours prior he'd spoken to him, and now, now John was gone.

Sherlock sobbed, clinging onto his best friends body. He was the one meant to die first, not the other way around. God damn, how? He shut Johns eyelids, cradling his head. John deserved to have piece in his death

* * *

Lestrade turned up soon after, he left the second Sherlock called him, but watching Sherlock show, well, emotion, towards another human being was touching. He prevented the team from going over, even Mary stayed behind for a bit with them, not long but still, she stayed for a few minutes, they all agreed, Sherlock needed his space, he needed time to calm down, he wouldn't want everyone seeing him like this, Sherlock wouldn't want people to see his emotions.

* * *

Sally stood their, she couldn't believe it. John wasn't so bad, he wasn't so bad at all, in fact she'd even go as far to say as that she _liked _him, and he was gone. Yet what surprised her more was the fact the freak- no Sherlock, was grieving. She was amazed, the psychopath, the freak, the, god their were so many words she could use, but that wasn't what she was on about, no it was the fact he was so, so upset, it amazed her, it really did. She didn't know whether to be happy about the emotion he was showing, or sad that his best fried, one of his only friends had died.

* * *

Sherlock woke in hospital. He wasn't sure why to start with, but then remembered the night before. John, no, oh god no. Please not John. He realized he'd passed out, shock or something like that, something so terribly human, he laughed a sad, broken, twisted laugh, in a way he supposed, death was the same. Something human, something one could not prevent. The hospital, or rather his brother must of wanted to keep him in. Keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid.

Sherlock got vivid nightmare from that terrible night all throughout the week, the images would twist in his head, he'd turn and twist, waking up in a pool of sweat. Sherlock saw John dead in his eyes, the images were different though, sometimes he would be drowning in blood, in some John was mad at Sherlock, so terribly mad, but in all of them Sherlock was to blame. It was so dreadfully painful, he hated it, hated the drams for doing that to him, but most of all he hated his self for not getting their in time. He sobbed into his pillow.

Later that week Sherlock was released.

* * *

He stayed in the flat for days, no, _weeks_ on end he didn't move apart from to the toilet, he slept on Johns chair, that seemed to be all he did with his life now, sleep. It was funny really, he never used to sleep if he could help it, and now, now he sept far too much, he only ate when Mrs Hudson put food in front of him. There was no need for such trivial things such as food. Not since John had gone. To start with people visited him, trying to help but soon everyone gave up, even his own brother. Mary was the only one who kept in contact, he was grateful for it. So very, very grateful. Even if he didn't show it, he was, Mrs Hudson gave him food of course, but that was all, apart from that he was alone again.

He looked in the drawer finding Johns gun. He'd begged Lestrade to keep it as a reminder of Johns time, somehow he had managed to convince him. Checking it was loaded he travelled down to Johns grave, he'd gone out a bit more lately, just shopping, but this caused Mrs Huddson to think nothing of him going out now. It was a long walk, but soon, soon it wouldn't matter.

* * *

Later that day Mycroft would find his brothers corps at Johns grave.

Lestrade would lose a friend.

And Mrs Hudson would lose the only family she had left.

But worse is that Mycroft would lose the only person he ever cared about.

He and Lestrade would grow closer.

But nothing would be the same.

Something would be missing.

His brothers death would never leave his heart.

He'd never forgive himself.

Mary would of lost a husband and now a friend.

The only real people she'd let get close had left her.

The Consulting Detective and his Blogger are gone.


End file.
